Backstage

"Yo...yo, man..." *ssthp* *sssthp *sssssthp* Punch takes three more quick hits off the blunt and holds it out to JoJo. "Yo, man, you wanna hit this?"

"Naw, man, I'm good,"  replies JoJo

Right at that moment, Steve the Tour Manager charges into the makeshift dressing room, an almost comical mixture of panic and rage streaked across his face.

"Just what in the fuck do you guys think you're doing?!" yells Steve. "Y'all are up next and you're back here dickin' around like you've got all the goddamn time in the world. And weed?! Seriously, save that for the bus. Are you guys trying to never get another gig booked again? Because if that's the case, then-"

"Then what, motherfucker?" JoJo snaps back. He bolts up from the couch; standing toe to toe with Steve, he asks incredulously, "Are you my doctor?!" Turning to his bandmate, he continues, "Yo, Punch, did Steve here get his medical license and not bother to tell a motherfucker about it?"

Cackling from his spot on the couch, Punch replies, "Yo, that's messed up, Steve. You shouldn't be fuckin' around with us like that. We got cards for this shit. Real medical shit."

"Yup. Real medical shit," JoJo echoes.

"Like what?" challenges Steve.

"Plantar fasciitis, motherfucker," Punch retorts.

"Booyah! Eczema!" proclaims JoJo.

The cramped, musty space is silent, as Steve sighs in defeat. He lowers his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. For a moment, the only sounds that can be heard are the alternating sharp inhales and luxurious exhales as Punch and JoJo pass the blunt back and forth.

"Fuck you guys. I quit."